


Stolen Fealty

by LurkingUmbra



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Abuse of Authority, F/M, Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Slow Burn, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LurkingUmbra/pseuds/LurkingUmbra
Summary: A brave and righteous guard known as the Sword-Maiden captures the attention of a pestersome Nightingale. Unfortunately for her, getting the bird off her back (and into a cage) is easier said than done.





	1. First Impressions are Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story of mine I started on FF.net but never got around to actually finishing. Unlike many of my other fics it's one that I actually had the confidence to post. I'm still quite fond of it and I'm disappointed that I didn't push myself to continue. So here it is in the hopes I keep going. Please tell me what you think.

He glanced down the hallway, checking on the maid he’d been watching for the better part of an hour. All that was required of her was to finish her sweep of the halls and go to bed. It wasn’t too much to ask – at least he thought so. However, if he’d known flirting with a guard for half an hour was part of her nightly routine, he would have brought a deck of cards. He always found the idea of playing solitaire in Solitude amusing.

With an impatient sigh he leaned back, settling back into the unused staircase that served as both seat and shield. Despite his chosen profession, where patience equaled profit, it had never been one of his strong suits. He hated it. Counting second after miserable second as time took its leisurely self was a maddening task.

A girlish giggle sounded down the corridor. He rolled his eyes. He needed her out of the way and rather than constantly looking over his shoulder, he preferred that the flirty little variable was removed from the equation. Stationary threats, such as the guards, were much easier to deal with.

He peered around the corner and froze. They’d gotten closer – kissing distance by his estimate. While a part of him was curious as to how the kissing would be done (seeing a city guard take off their helmet was one thing he’d never actually witnessed) there was a job to be done. Time was slipping away and night was steadily becoming day.

_Balls to it._

With a flick of his wrist a spell – a translucent, deep purple orb – appeared in his palm. It twisted and turned within itself, its torrential appearance mirroring its unstable nature. Flexing his fingers, the orb shattered and he vanished in a sudden flash.

He moved silently, a specter slinking along the wall. He ticked off the seconds in his head, counting what little time he had before the spell dissipated and left him exposed. Upon reaching the pair of lovebirds in the hall he stopped. As he eyed the two so seemingly bent on thwarting his flawless plan he decided he had a few seconds to spare. He rose from his crouched position along the wall and carefully moved towards them. Leaning close to the maid, mindful not to touch her, a soft _“Psst!”_ slipped from his mask. He leapt back and slipped away, just as the young Nord jumped and scanned the hallway with wide, startled eyes.

“Is something wrong?” he heard the guard say.

“N-no, not at all,” said the maid in an unconvincing tone.

“Anyway, I get off duty in an hour…”

After his small feat of vengeance had been served, he pressed on. Turning a corner, he was met with a corridor tucked away from view. The path to the Jarl’s quarters lay ahead: unlit and unguarded. Pick and tension wrench readily in hand, he sidled close to the locked double doors and went to work. As his pick skimmed the edge of the lock the spell broke, abandoning him in a brief but bright flash. Not that it mattered. Within moments a soft _click_ met his ears and the doors parted with mild protest. He darted inside and shut the doors.

Scanning the room, he found the sole occupant of the room in bed and fast asleep – so blissfully unaware of her visitor. He crossed the room, each step swift and silent, and crouched beside her. As he loomed over her, watching the moonlight play across her face, sweet Elisif was none the wiser. Unfortunately, his objective did not involve the lovely Jarl.

There, on her end table, set on a bed of velvet within a gilded box, was his goal: a Stone of Barenziah.

He seized the small gem from its box and tucked it securely within an empty satchel on his belt. In its stead he placed a flower, a bloom as beautiful as it was deadly. Taking a moment to pull the blankets up to the Jarl’s chin, he bid her a silent good night and exited the room.

Apart from an odd breeze sweeping by, the proud protectors of the Jarl detected nothing out of the ordinary.

Outside, Skyrim’s capital had grown quiet, a somberness permeating the very stone from which it was built. It was a demeanor befitting Solitude, befitting a city caught in the midst of war – no matter how greatly the cards were dealt in its favor.

After dodging a few guards’ repetitive routes the roads were conveniently empty…spare the local drunk. But the poor soul was ignored. A trick of the mind – of the _mead_ – he would think. How else could the man fathom a walking shadow, let alone a shadow casually tossing a shining gemstone in its hand?

Forgoing from the risky (but rather tempting) urge to pass through the market place and all but stride out the city gates, he stuck to his original plan. Beneath Solitude’s famous windmill was a darkened exit from the city, one completely unguarded.

_And therefore perfect for bastardly purposes._

With a nod toward the old drunk he turned and opened the gates, heading down the tunnel and back into the guarding embrace of the shadows.

_

Her patrol had been uneventful. All eight hours of it. No distant, threatening roar of a dragon looming on the horizon, no Stormcloak spies to thwart – not even a brawl between drunken sailors to break up. Then again, what did she expect when assigned the northern harbor road on the graveyard shift? It lacked the uncertain thrill of manning the main road to and from Solitude or the amusement of eavesdropping on local gossip inside the city. Stepping over gull droppings was as eventful as it got most nights.

_Leave it to Uncle Aldis to give me the dullest shift on the dullest road in the entire Hold._

She would ask him for a new route if she wasn’t certain the other guards would give her grief about it. Despite her best efforts she’d never managed to completely shed the accusations of favoritism amongst the guards (being the captain’s niece painted a large, easy target on her back). In spite of being his ‘favorite’, the probability Aldis would say “no” was incredibly high. He’d said as much when she’d requested a main road shift…and jail duty…and Palace duty. In fact, he’d managed to shoot down every shift or patrol route short of guarding Katla’s chickens.

_Now that I think about it, chicken duty wouldn’t be that bad. At least I’d have someone to talk to._

Things just hadn’t been the same since the ambush three months ago and she doubted they would be anytime soon. Aldis was too cautious and stubborn to change his mind so quickly. For the time being she would just have to grin and bear it.

Her feet throbbed with every step and the scent of low tide clung to her uniform like stink on a skeever. She walked along the road beneath the great land bridge, the rock formation holding half of Solitude above her head. She breathed a small sigh of relief as she laid eyes on the lantern post just a few yards away, its golden glow marking the hidden entrance into the city.

As she neared the weathered doors they creaked open, stopping her in her tracks. Rarely did anyone use that particular passage from the city and those that did possessed a key for the gate in the city. Those select few were the Solitude guardsmen and Vittoria Vici. This person, clad in a dark cloak, appeared to be neither.

As they turned toward the bridge leading to the harbor she frowned. This person was far too tall to be the Imperial noblewoman and no guardsman would wear armor as dark as night.

_Not unless they wanted to be mistaken for a…_ thief.

“In the name of the Jarl,” she yelled, reaching for the bow strapped to her back and nocking an arrow, “stop right there!”

The person froze and she cautiously inched closer, her arrow trained on their back.

“Hands where I can see them; no sudden movements,” she ordered. She stared down the shaft of the arrow, her eyes fixed on his every move. He turned slowly and she noted the unsettling lack of footfalls. The man’s – if it was a man –outfit looked as if it were made from the shadows themselves. Embossed on his chest was an odd symbol: a bird cradling a circle between its wings. Beneath his hood she saw a black mask completely covering his face. The armor was unlike any she’d ever seen but it would not deter her.

“Care to answer a few questions? Like why you’re walking around in that get-up in the middle of the night?”

The cloaked man paused and grabbed his chin, as if thinking of a suitable answer. The gesture alone made her step forward, arrowhead aimed at his throat. His hand moved from his chin and a bright, violet orb filled his palm.

She knew a spell when she saw one. Upon seeing it she released the arrow, piercing only air. She drew another and braced for an unseen attack. The silence around her was deafening; her ears straining to hear footsteps, the flap of a cape – something, a _nything_. The only thing she heard was her own muffled breathing.

“Show yourself coward!” she hissed. She turned to scan the road, the moonlight yielding nothing.

A small ‘ _thunk_ ’ sounded against the back of her helm. She jumped and spun around in time for a small stone to hit her between the eyes before bouncing off.

The man in black stood behind her, hand on his hip in an insufferably casual way as he tossed another stone in his hand. He tilted his head in a manner she found far too mocking. Without another word, another thought, she fired her arrow. Sure enough, the bastard twisted quickly enough to avoid it. She moved to draw another but the man was suddenly upon her, reaching for her. She took a swing at him with the fist clutching her bow. He caught it, as she expected, and drove her knee into his stomach. He staggered back just enough for her to kick him away. He hit the rocks behind him with a grunt and slid to the ground. By the time he raised his head another arrow was nocked and aimed at his head.

"Stay where you are or I _will_ kill you.” The air of confidence in her voice was gone, leaving only frustration and anger. She’d be damned if she allowed the man to toy with her.

She could sense his eyes on her, staring at her beneath that annoying mask. As if to irritate her even more the man's shoulders began shaking. She narrowed her eyes. Was he…? He was… The bastard was laughing!

“Do not mock me, _thief_!” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. It was bad enough she’d been reduced to sounding like a petulant child.

His shoulders shook even more. Gods help her she’d shoot him in the mouth just to ruin whatever smile hid beneath that mask.

Moments ticked away and they continued staring one another down. An unspoken impasse had settled between them. The man couldn’t move without being shot and she couldn’t apprehend him without withdrawing her arrow and leaving herself open to attack.

_I could always kill him…_

No, the man looked far too strange to kill without at least questioning him. Against her own desire to simply end the bastard, she knew she needed help.

She looked away from the man, searching down the road for any sign of the guards at the docks. In the corner of her eye she noticed movement. Looking back at her cornered suspect she paled when the sight of a spell, the same violet spell, was in his hand. The man waves before vanishing once again.

"No!" She cried and fired her arrow, hitting only rock. Sensing something brush past her she twisted and fired again, missing. Shooting two more useless shots at random she growled and threw her bow down. "Damn it!"

When empty silence surrounded her, she was certain she was alone once again. Whoever he was – _whatever_ he was – was long gone.

 

 


	2. Hero of Old

The sun had already risen above Solitude when she finally marched into Castle Dour and to the guard barracks…if dragging one’s feet could be considered marching. Aside from the smell of briny ocean air clinging to her armor, she noted the addition of another stench, one only she could detect: failure.

After hours of scouring the lonely stretch of road beneath Solitude, her search had failed to yield results. There weren’t any footprints or broken branches, not even any upturned stones to indicate which direction he’d gone. It was like the cloaked man never existed.

_Perhaps he hadn’t. The graveyard shift did have a way of preying upon a guard’s imagination after a while…_ _No. I know it was real._ He _was real._

It was that confidence that had fueled her resolve to search, a futile search that consumed most of the early morning hours until the fatigue that filled her minute by minute could be no longer be ignored.

Once inside the city, it filled her with relief and anxiety. Relief in the knowledge that her bed was not far, and anxiety in that the cloaked man’s reasons for being in the capital were still unknown. On her way to the castle she passed by shops and homes expecting to hear screams of murder or shouts of theft – any sign that the relatively peaceful life in Solitude had been disrupted. Instead, merchants walked to their stalls and opened their shops as guards lazily made their rounds.

Inside the barracks she turned towards the sleeping area and walked down the dual rows of beds lining the walls. Most were empty, spare a few snoring occupants. She continued on until she reached the very end of the room where a simple, wooden partition separated her bed from the others. It wasn’t much but it allowed her some privacy from her fellow guardsmen. She sank down onto her bed and began the task of removing her armor and weapons. Her armor was set off to the side and her weapons placed carefully at the foot of her bed – spare her sword and dagger. Her sword was dutifully propped against her small end table; the dagger, normally tucked into her boot, was placed beneath her pillow. Despite numerous reassurances of Dour being the safest bastion in all of Skyrim a woman could never be too careful. Living in an age of dragons rising from the dead (and living shadows with penchants for disappearing) had taught her to always remain on guard.

After pulling at straps and chainmail she was left in a simple tunic and leggings. She was certain comfier and cleaner clothes were hiding in her end table, but that would actually require moving – something her mind was definitely against at the moment. With a huff she fell onto her side and pulled her deerskin blanket over herself. Despite what had occurred hours before and an unshakable sense of shame it brought, she found herself asleep within seconds.

"Jordis....Jordis!"

It seemed like she’d been asleep for only a few minutes when a voice began calling her name incessantly. Of course, given her recent luck, that was probably the case.

“Get up!” A hand touched her shoulder and began shaking her gently.

Jordis didn’t really care who had decided to disrupt her slumber but she made an effort to recognize their voice. Revenge would need to be dealt at some point. Judging by the lilting voice and uncertain tone she surmised it was Ansgar. Ansgar was the youngest of the guardsmen – barely seventeen. He was a sweet, ambitious boy with an unbreakable sense of loyalty and honor. She needed to remind herself to say those things at his funeral.

“Jordis, come on!”

She grunted and turned away, smacking the boy’s prodding hand in the process. "By the Eight, Ansgar, _go away_!" Unless a dragon was burning down the city or Ulfric Stormcloak and his jolly band of rebels were knocking on the city gates, nothing was getting her out of bed.

"The captain requested your presence at the Blue Palace.”

Jordis shot up in bed, sending the boy staggering back nervously. “Is it Jarl Elisif? Is something wrong with her?”

Despite the helmet on his head she could easily picture the sheepish look on his face.

“I don’t know. Captain just told me to get you. The palace is blocked off right now; guards who didn’t have palace duty aren’t allowed in.”

Dread sank into the pit of her stomach. If her uncle was barring fellow guardsmen from entering that meant….

“Are you okay? You look like you need a bucket.”

_I probably will for when they collect my head._

Jordis laughed, the noise sounding painfully empty in her ears. Realizing Ansgar was still hovering over her worriedly she forced a smile onto her lips. “I’m fine, really. I just need a moment.”

Ansgar leaned back and nodded. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

Once he rounded the corner of the partition her smile dissolved into a look of panic. There was a knock on her partition. Her head snapped up.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’ll be ready in a minute,” she insisted.

Taking a deep breath, Jordis set about putting on her armor and readying her weapons. After bidding Ansgar goodbye, she walked out of the barracks, out of the castle, and down the avenue leading straight to the Blue Palace.

The sky was clear with thin, wispy clouds drifting lazily overhead. Music flitted out of the courtyard of the Bards College, accompanying the laughter of the local children as they chased one another; all in all a picturesque scene. Jordis did not notice any of it. Her imagination was running rampant with images of Jarl Elisif stabbed, strangled, suffocated. No matter the manner of death she could see blood staining her hands.

_Gods let her be well._

She could not live with the shame if Jarl Elisif wasn’t – not that she would. Once word got out that she had allowed the murderer of Skyrim’s future High Queen to slip away she’d be executed. It wouldn’t matter that she’d fought him or that the cowardly bastard had used magic.

“I’d be no better than Roggvir,” Jordis muttered to herself. While the former guard had deliberately allowed Ulfric to escape, she’d meet the same fate and the same dishonor.

As the palace began looming before her, she raised her head. The courtyard was lined with guards and the dread that had been simmering within her stomach intensified. Helmeted heads turned as she walked past, watching her every move. When she neared the entrance the two guards stationed on either side of the door stepped forward.

“Remove your helmet.”

Jordis obeyed. As her blonde hair fell free from the confines of her helmet and green eyes stared solemnly ahead the two guards visibly relaxed.

“Go on in, Jordis,” one of the guards said as he waved her through.

Keeping her helmet off in case other guards inside requested the same thing, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The sight of Legionnaires everywhere threw her. They mingled amongst guardsmen, all of them looking around or speaking to one another. In the midst of them she spotted a familiar head of dark hair standing between the staircases leading to the throne room. Resisting the urge to turn around and walk out, she squared her jaw and marched forward. She was a few steps away before Aldis noticed her. The older Nord gave her a tired smile.

She stood before her captain – always ‘captain’ in the presence of other guards – and saluted.

"Captain, what happened? Is the Jarl alright?"

"She's fine, a bit shaken, but fine."

The urge to sigh in relief was heavy but she refrained. Loyalty or not, such obvious comfort in the Jarl’s well-being could be seen as suspicious behavior.

_I could always pass it off as happiness that Thane Erikur will not become Jarl._

Upstairs, she could hear the insufferable blowhard ranting on. Thankfully she heard General Tullius interject. The Imperial’s intolerance for boot-licking was commendable but it reminded her of a question sitting at the forefront of her mind.

"What are the soldiers doing here?"

"General Tullius brought them along. It's for the best. We can't afford to have the city guard stretched thin. We still have an entire Hold to protect." Aldis paused for a moment before giving her a hard stare. "Someone broke into the palace last night. They managed to enter the Jarl's chambers completely undetected."

“A robbery?”

“Aye, but a strange one. They only took one thing.”

Jordis furrowed her brow, “What was it?”

“Follow me,” Aldis said as he moved to walk upstairs to the second floor. Jordis followed suit.

A swarm of people had gathered around the throne where the Jarl sat, all incredibly important figures such as the surly general and Thanes Bryling and Erikur. Jarl Elisif looked paler than usual, her eyes a bit wider and weary of her surroundings. Jordis could only imagine the fear the poor woman felt after realizing someone who could have easily been an assassin had broken into the palace, entered her quarters, and stood over her as she slept.

“Uncle,” she whispered as she walked alongside Aldis, “I am not questioning your command but…why did you summon me? You and the general seem to have everything handled.”

“You know how thick-skulled some of the men can be. I need someone reliable at my side,” he said.

“Does this mean you forgive me? For the raid?”

“No. What you did that day was impulsive and idiotic. You could’ve been killed. I love you, but I will not forget that I could have lost you.”

The somber silence settling between them was short-lived as they reached the Jarl’s chamber. The double doors leading into the large room were open. Inside, everything was in disarray. Drawers and wardrobes were pulled open, books were laid open and lying on the ground; even the bed had been roughly shoved aside

“Was this the thief’s doing?” She couldn’t imagine anyone sleeping through that chaos.

“Several of the guards seemed to have forgotten the difference between proper search methods and ransacking. The Jarl confirms everything is still here except…” he gestured to an end table beside the large four-poster bed. Jordis stepped forward and peered down at the only notable item on the table: a gilded box. Inside was a single bloom of fresh nightshade.

“What was in the box before?”

“A gem.”

She looked over her shoulder, “Surely they could have found something in the room that would fetch a higher price than a single gem."

"Sybille has informed me that the gem was a Stone of Barenziah. It had been in the possession of the ruling monarchs of Solitude for generations."

She briefly recalled reading about Barenziah but couldn’t remember anything about stones. Either way, it made no sense for a thief to steal a single item. They took money, jewelry – things of obvious value that could be sold…unless this wasn’t about money. Some thieves, those of higher skill, stole for sport.

_And what greater sport than stealing from the future High Queen of Skyrim?_

"This makes no sense,” Aldis said, drawing Jordis from her thoughts, “All the windows are intact, the doors locked, and no one claimed to see anything suspicious last night. Am I to assume we’re dealing with a ghost of some sort?"

_No, just an incredibly irritating bastard with an invisibility spell._

"An inside job, perhaps?" Jordis offered.

Aldis shook his head, "All the guards have been questioned; the servants as well – along with an inspection of their rooms. Nothing."

"It could be stashed away somewhere. The palace has many hiding places."

"The men are searching as we speak but the odds of finding it aren't likely."

Hearing the sound of dejection in his voice, Jordis bowed her head. She couldn’t assist her uncle any further without revealing her involvement in the thief’s escape.

“At least the Jarl is safe.”

“Thank the gods,” Aldis replied.

They left the room and returned downstairs. As Jordis followed her uncle down the steps she noticed a stranger passing through the throng of soldiers and guards. She tensed, her hand inching towards her sword, before realizing no one had given the man a second glance. It was a remarkable feat considering the man was easily a head taller than her fellow Nordic guards. As she moved closer she noticed his armor. Aside from the weathered hood obscuring his face, his armor looked to be made of bones. Bones and giant scales.

“Dragonborn!” Aldis called out. The man looked up. Suddenly Jordis wished she had been wearing her helmet. Her eyes must’ve been bulging from their sockets.

Jordis liked to think she wasn’t as prejudiced as most other Nords, but why gods – of all the races in the world – why did the Dragonborn, slayer of the World-Eater and savior of Nirn, have to be a High Elf? She’d never met one that wasn’t a self-important bitch or bastard.

While she’d heard tales of the Dragonborn and sightings of him across the land, she’d never seen him nor given much thought as to what he looked like. His race was constantly changing depending on who spun the yarn. Being of near godly status with the powers of a dragon, Jordis always envisioned him as some omnipotent being like the Divines: shapeless and all-powerful (or at least Nordic). After hearing the legend of the Dragonborn during bedtime when she was a young girl and hearing the many tavern songs in adolescence, it was hard not to imagine such a hero as a fellow Nord.

_The gods must have an odd sense of humor._

Once he reached the first floor, Aldis extended a hand out to the elf, who promptly shook it.

“It’s good to see you.”

"Likewise, captain. What happened here?" said the Dragonborn as he scanned the room. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes – coal, by her guess.

"I'm surprised you don't already know,” Aldis said with a hint of surprise.

"I just passed through the gates a few minutes ago. Firebeard's letter seemed urgent, though I do believe it is unrelated." He withdrew a folded piece of parchment from his belt and held it between two gloved fingers. “So, what happened?”

Jordis watched the exchange between her uncle and the Dragonborn, studying the latter rather than actually listening. He had the typical angular features of his kind, but looked more… _rugged_ than the Thalmor Justiciars and soldiers she was accustomed to seeing. Days worth of black stubble covered his jaw and the leather hood on his head was worn and faded. On his back she noticed a bow, also made of bones, and a quiver full of ebony arrows. At his hip rested an odd looking sword: the sheath thin and the hilt wrapped in strips of black leather. Jordis could not help but furrow her brow. High Elves usually stuck to their spells or at the very least toted gaudy weaponry as they strutted about like puffed-up, golden fowls.

Descending the stairs to join her uncle, Aldis noticed her and motioned her over. He placed a hand upon her shoulder. “How rude of me. This is Jordis.”

The Dragonborn’s gaze instantly shifted from the older Nord to her. In spite of her tall height and patented stoicism she felt small and meek beneath the scrutiny of those fiery amber eyes.

“Finest guard in the entire Hold,” Aldis went on in a tone that was nothing short of boastful.

She had an incredible urge to roll her eyes.

_If I was the finest I would be coordinating bandit camp raids and not under the city at night playing hopscotch with gull droppings and seashells._

Jordis extended her hand. “It is an honor, sir.”

An amiable smile spread across the elf’s face as he took her hand. The strength of a man’s (or elf’s) handshake said a lot about them and there was an obvious sense of power within the Dragonborn’s grasp.

“The honor is mine,” he said as he continued to smile down at her. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” she replied, quickly dropping her hand.

With a nod to both her and Aldis, he moved to ascend the staircase. Jordis looked on as he went.

“So, he actually uses a bow?”

“Aye.”

“How strange.”

Aldis chuckled, “As the savior of Skyrim, I believe he’s allowed a few eccentricities.” Suddenly, the smile on his face faded, "By the gods, what's today? The ninth?"

"I think so,” she said, her brows furrowing.

"How careless of me. I had almost forgotten."

She turned her head to stare at him confusedly before it dawned on her. With the stress of the night before and present day it had completely slipped her mind.

Her gaze fell to the floor, "...Yes. That."

"I'm sorry. I should have remembered.” Aldis’ comforting hands held her shoulders. It was the closest thing to a hug he did in public. The rumors of favoritism were not lost on him. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"

She lifted her head, "But the palace-"

"Everything’s under control. Go on ahead to the temple."

"Thank you," she glanced around before quietly adding, “Uncle.” The older Nord smiled before patting her back and sending her off.

There was an unmistakable air of serenity within the Temple of the Divines. Amid the stone and unspoken prayers there was a comforting warmth that spread beyond the candles’ reach. Upon entering the holy place, the priestess Silana greeted her with a delicate nod and a quiet blessing. Jordis bowed her head awkwardly and smiled. She wasn’t devoutly religious, something she and the priestess both knew, but reverence of the gods had been imbedded within her since childhood, as was the reason for her visit.

Jordis walked down the aisle leading to the shrines, her footsteps echoing as she went. She stood before the semi-circle of alcoves, amongst the eight pedestals baring shrines and the glaringly empty ninth that did not. It struck a constant chord within her. Not because she worshipped Talos but because her father had. Every Sundas her mother would ask him to attend temple services with her and every Sundas he would bitterly decline.

“ _Until they place that shrine back where it belongs, I will never go through those doors.”_

And he never did. His funeral was held within the courtyard of Castle Dour on an icy morning in Frostfall twelve years ago. ‘Stubborn until the end’, Uncle Aldis had said that day. The empty pedestal always made her think of him.

She sighed and shifted the helmet held at her hip. In her other hand she held three mountain flowers: one red, one yellow, and one pink.

_Two for the lives lost and one for the life that never began._

With the Hero-God of Man unavailable for the occasion (as always), she moved to the shrine of Stendarr. The God of Mercy and Justice was the patron god of any guard worth their salt; her father had been worth his. Placing the red flower at the bottom of the pedestal she moved to the shrine of Mara: her mother’s patron goddess. There, she placed the pink flower. Left with the yellow flower, she moved to the third and final shrine: Arkay. She placed the third flower and stepped back, taking in the sight of all three bright blooms on the cold, gray stone.

Over a decade had passed and the mourning had come and gone, but the sense of loss was forever there. She reminded herself it wasn’t within a mortal’s capacity to understand the actions of the gods.

Retreating to a bench she sat down, set her helmet and bow beside her, and ruminated over memories and the proverbial question of “What if?” Soon she began feeling exhaustion creeping up on her, the adrenaline of earlier spent and wasted. Deciding to stay a few moments more she settled on praying to pass the time.

Or at least the illusion of praying.

Leaning forward with her eyes closed was a bad choice while in desperate need of sleep. Only by sheer force of will and the reluctance to be embarrassed did she keep from falling over like a drunk.

The loud, protesting groans of the temple doors caught her attention. Bright morning light slipped into the temple and spread across the rows of benches. As quickly as the doors were open, they were shut and the temple resumed its dim glow. Quiet footsteps drifted in and whispers rose at her back. Curiosity getting the better of her, she slowly turned to look over her shoulder.

There at entrance stood the Dragonborn with Silana, his height all the more apparent as he towered over the Imperial woman. The priestess turned and gestured down the aisle. As his eyes followed her hand Jordis quickly faced forward. After another whisper footsteps came down the aisle. The armored elf entered her peripheral vision and she watched him walk past her. He didn’t strike her as religious, then again she knew nothing about him other than his long list of heroic deeds (and most of those were left up to debate). When he turned left in front of the shrines and disappeared down a small corridor she frowned. If she remembered correctly there was nothing worthwhile downstairs, just a bed chamber and a small kitchen. Either High Priest Rorlund was down there or –

_No! You have your own problems to deal with. Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong._

Yet the nagging voice in her head, the one reminding her that the elf was not known for visiting the temple, persisted. After a minute of glancing _at_ the corridor then looking _away_ from the corridor she sighed and stood, plucking her helmet and bow off the bench.

The gate leading into the kitchen stood open and an unexplained chill filled the air. With cautious footsteps she walked into the room to the long hallway at the end, hand at her sword. That increasingly familiar armor and bow came into view.

The Dragonborn had his back to her as he examined a large hole at the end of the hallway. Several stone bricks and piles of rubble covered the floor around it as cobwebs clung to the ceiling above. Beyond the hole was pure darkness.

"Trouble?"

The elf lifted his head and laughed. "If I had a Septim for every time a guard asked me that..." he looked over his shoulder at her, smirking, "No. No trouble."

Undeterred, she replied, "You know, the saying is that wherever the Dragonborn goes, danger is not far off. So where's the danger?"

The elf turned to her fully and she could see a fraction of that smirk still clinging to his lips. He walked towards her, stopping only a mere foot from her.

"...Can you read?"

She blinked, “Pardon?”

“ _Can you read?_ ” he spoke the words slowly, as if speaking to a child…a very slow child.

Jordis’ eyes narrowed. The Dragonborn produced a letter from his belt, the same one he showed at the palace. She snatched it from his hand.

"It was a legitimate question."

"Yes, Dragonborn, I can read. Does that surprise you?" she said, her anger evident.

"Mildly,” he crossed his arms, “Skyrim isn't exactly brimming with culture."

Jordis sighed. "I was wondering when your High Elven arrogance was going to shine through."

"To be fair, I held out longer than most."

"I just met you an hour ago."

"As I said: longer than most."

Jordis simply shook her head, but stilled as she came across a particular line, "...Summoning and binding ritual?"

"A group of necromancers were attempting to resurrect someone. Seems they were partially successful."

"Who was the person they were trying to resurrect?" she lifted her head. The Dragonborn looked down at her seriously. She leaned back, “What?”

"Can you keep a secret?"

"I've never been known to gossip."

"…Potema."

Jordis’ eyes widened. Many in the capital still told stories of Potema. Mere mention of the Wolf Queen served to frighten children into behaving. Jordis had earned her fair share of warnings that she’d be dragged off by the vile necromancer if she didn’t behave. But if what the Dragonborn said was true that warning would be all too real.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t be skulking around a dusty basement if I wasn’t,” he said.

"So what's your plan?"

"I send her back to Oblivion."

Jordis looked to the floor, nodding softly before placing her helmet on her head. As she went to step forward the Dragonborn blocked her.

"What are you doing?"

"Going with you,” she said matter-of-factly.

The elf remained rooted to the spot.

"Look, I swore to defend Solitude and its people with my life. Do you expect me to sit around and twiddle my thumbs while the Wolf Queen returns?"

“I do, actually.”

After the overwhelming failure the night before, Jordis knew she needed to redeem herself. Stopping a powerful necromancer from enslaving the capital seemed like a reasonable place to start. She went to move around him and he blocked her yet again. Beneath her helmet she glared at him.

“As much as I’m enjoying this little dance, I really must be going,” the Dragonborn sighed and turned around to walk into the hole in the wall. Just as he stepped over the rubble, intent on slipping into the darkness and facing whatever lurked beyond, he paused.

"You can tag along, but do _not_ get in my way," he said wearily without turning back.

Jordis smiled victoriously as she moved to follow behind him, disappearing through the hole.

 

 


End file.
